


Elio's al Mar

by lilithilien



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:33:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithilien/pseuds/lilithilien
Summary: It's probably not a good idea to visit Progreso, but Oliver goes anyway.





	Elio's al Mar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmyriadfthINGs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyriadfthINGs/gifts).



> This story began in February and is only now being finished. Thank goodness for birthday deadlines! I love you, AmyriadfthINGs!

_We’re thrilled about your visiting professorship,”_ Dr. Perlman had written. _“Mérida is a beautiful city - Annella and I visited Elio there last winter. He has a restaurant in Progreso, on the Gulf of Mexico…_

Oliver imagined the Professor penning these simple words from Italy, and knowing that they, like the flutter of a butterfly, would create a storm halfway around the world.

But the restaurant was closed. A sign at the gate, _Elio's al Mare,_ taunted him, conjuring up images of a boy with wind-tousled hair, his tanned skin glistening with sea water, his lips tasting of salt. Below it, a second handwritten notice (not in Elio’s hand, Oliver noted) announced that the restaurant was undergoing renovations.

Oliver walked all the way around the building, hoping in vain for some sign of life. From the looks of it, work was going slowly. Or not at all. Circuitously he returned to the notice. _“What were you thinking?”_ it seemed to say. _“You would just saunter in and time would rewind, and he would be waiting for you?”_ Oliver shook his head at himself, at the naïve optimism that had brought him here. It was probably for the best, after all, that nothing had come of this little venture.

Seven years had passed since that summer. Seven years since he spent what he now thought of as the last days of his youth, like some kind of glorious sun-dappled last hurrah before picking up the threads of adulthood. Career. Marriage. Divorce. He was 30 now, and Elio would be what, 24? A man now, finally grown into those coltish limbs, matured by the inevitable events that, at 17, he had yet to experience. What would Oliver even say to him now?

_“Remember me?”_

_“You used to look at me and the world would spin._

_“I loved you, once.”_

The long walk back to the town centre was welcome, cooling his thoughts as the sun dipped toward the sea. A beer and sunset, he decided, then the bus back to Mérida to resume his life.

The beach was emptying. the daytrippers, bereft of sunshine, having fled the palapas at the water’s edge. Oliver claimed one near enough the incoming tide to douse his feet. With a bottle of Indio secured from a passing waiter, he settled into the lounger and peered at the bright line left by the waning sun.

The only people left on the beach were locals: children resisting their parents’ calls to leave the waves, couples pressed together against the sea wall, young men gathered around a motorcycle. One broke away from the pack and approached Oliver. “Professor?”

Oliver stared at the young man, then recognition flared. “You’re in my Ancient Archaeology course, right?”

“Ernesto,” he nodded, beaming. “I’m surprised to see you here. Are you staying in Progreso?”

Oliver shook his head. “I just came down for the day. And you?”

“I grew up here. My family owns the restaurant across the street.” He pointed vaguely toward a row of colonial buildings, then looked thoughtful. “Have you already eaten dinner?”

Oliver grimaced. “Actually, I’d planned to, but the restaurant I went to was closed.”

Ernest looked delighted at this. “Then you will come to our restaurant. Please, I insist.”

Oliver held up his hand to refuse, but his stomach growled in protest. “Yes, all right,” he laughed. “I would love to.”

The restaurant, a beautifully restored colonial house with a wide, tiled veranda, was a short walk away. Two of Ernesto’s sisters were at the entrance; another came out from the bar for introductions. They teased their brother about his class attendance, obviously proud of him, then led Oliver to a table with a view of the ocean. A beer appeared before him, tortilla chips, several salsas. Ernesto left him with the promise of more to come and disappeared into the kitchen.

The restaurant was buzzing, a popular place among the locals. Oliver was the only single diner; the other tables were filled with families; their tables, like his, were piled high with dishes. Between the tables, Ernesto’s family moved to a well-choreographed dance. Oliver wondered if Elio’s restaurant would be like this, when it was open. He had thought it would be hard to picture the frenetic teenager orchestrating a restaurant’s operations. Now, attuned to its rhythms and touched by its energy, Oliver can easily imagine Elio delivering the delights of his kitchen, bobbing in and out among the diners like a pelican riding the waves.

Caught in this thought, Oliver didn’t notice when Ernesto returned. “Elio’s?” Oliver heard. The name stopped his heart, and he almost choked. “What did you say?”

“Where you wanted to eat.” Oliver looked up and saw Ernesto balancing plates of food. “The restaurant that was closed. Was it Elio’s?”

“Y- yes, that’s right.” Oliver stumbled, wondering how much his voice gave away. But hearing that name aloud… Changing the subject he quickly said, “This looks amazing.”

"I thought it might be. The owner is a friend of my sister, Marta." Ernesto set his plates down and held up one finger, urging patience, before dashing off. Oliver surveyed the table, wondering where more dishes could possibly fit. Ernesto’s family was beyond generous.

Unfortunately, his appetite had vanished. Marta, yes, of course there would be a Marta, just like there had been a Marzia, just like there had been others, for both of them. It was such folly to have come here, even to think that Elio might want to see him again. It was folly even to imagine the things he refused to let himself imagine but that sometimes, like that tenacious boy with tousled hair, would wind their way into his mind unbidden, leaving him aching with want.

Well. There was nothing for it but a bus ride back to the city, an icy cold shower, and class prep - that would surely take his mind off whatever had just happened here.

Oliver pushed his chair back to begin his exit - accompanied by profuse apologies to Ernesto and his family - when he saw Ernesto leaving the bar. Behind him walked a taller man that Oliver didn't know. He was wearing a grin that Oliver did.

"This is the owner of the other restaurant - the one that was closed," Ernesto said, not seeming to notice that the other two men were paying him no attention. "I told him you tried to eat there and he wanted to meet you."

"Elio," the man said, holding out his hand. It was the simplest of introductions, but as he said his name, Elio's voice overflowed with meaning. _There is no Marta,_ he seemed to say, _just like there was no Marzia, no Chiara, no one but you._

Oliver heard it all. Catching Elio's hand and not letting it go, in the same voice, he said his name.


End file.
